Chemistry
by kerithwyn
Summary: Sometimes, it's just this easy. Lincoln Lee/Nick Lane, for Wikiaddicted's "Boot Theory" 'verse. [Lincoln/Nick]


Fandom: Fringe

Characters: Lincoln Lee, Nick Lane

Rating: T

Summary: Sometimes, it's just this easy.

Notes: A Fringe Exchange 2014 extra for Wikiaddicted. Fluffy prequel fic based in her "Boot Theory" universe.

* * *

Common wisdom says that hooking up with someone on a first meeting isn't conducive to a lasting, significant relationship.

Common wisdom can cram itself sideways.

Lincoln meets Nick Lane his second night in Lakeside, when he's still trying to decide whether to stay in town or move on. He has a solid offer from the local sheriff's office for a deputy job, but on the other hand, there are probably law enforcement positions available in Jersey, closer to his sister. It's been a long time since he's lived near family or spent more than a couple of days around the holidays with them.

Lakeside seems like a perfectly nice little town. He likes Sheriff Francis right off the bat, and on her way out the door Deputy Farnsworth promises to bake him a pie if he signs on. The pies, Francis assures him, are very good. The other deputy, Dunham somebody, had been out on a call. For all that they serve a relatively small population, Francis explains, their jurisdiction covers a spread-out area and they need another pair of hands. The job's his if he wants it.

He finds a satisfying, just-like-home-cooked dinner at a local diner, and the friendly waitress directs him toward evening entertainment: Eight Ball Pub and Bowling.

When in Wisconsin, he supposes.

The place is moderately busy, people streaming in and out in bowling shirts and well-worn jeans. He walks past the men and women lined up at the bar until he finds an empty stool.

"What's your pleasure?"

"Something local," Lincoln says, and the tall blond barman gives him an appraising look before rummaging under the bar and coming up with a brown glass bottle. He uncaps it and hands it over.

"Try this. You don't like it, I'll find you something else."

Lincoln looks at the unlabeled bottle and raises an eyebrow. The barman grins, his blue-gray eyes amused. "Trust me. It's not in my best interest to poison our new prospective lawman. Olivia would shoot me."

"How did you know who I am? And who's this trigger-happy Olivia?"

The guy throws back his head and laughs and Lincoln is immediately charmed by the sound. "My friend Olivia Dunham, she's—"

"The other deputy," Lincoln finishes, nodding. "Who's tired of working extended hours to cover the area."

"Exactly!" the barman beams. "As for the first thing—d'you like it?"

Lincoln finally takes a sip out of the unmarked bottle. Hard cider, to his surprise, rather than beer. It's crisp, strong, and exactly what he hadn't known he'd wanted. "It's amazing. How'd you guess?"

"I had a feeling." The man reaches a hand over the bar. "I'm Nick Lane."

"Lincoln Lee," he says, meeting the handshake. "So you have a talent for knowing what people want to drink, as well as who's in town?"

Nick's grin is a thing of sly beauty. The rest of him, Lincoln is belatedly realizing, is beautiful too. "I can only claim the first. Gossip fills in the rest, it's always fast when there's someone new in town. Hang on, I'll be right back."

Lincoln glances down the bar and watches as Nick goes down the line, filling the other patrons' beer mugs and sharing a friendly word with everyone. No one else, he notes, has a bottle like his. He sips at it contemplatively, hearing the murmurs of conversation and the occasional crash of bowling balls hitting pins. He could make a life here. Probably less chance of being shot than in Jersey, at any rate.

Nick comes back his way, holding out a newspaper. "Apartments and houses for rent. If you want, I can warn you off the ones that are falling-down rat traps." He leans in. "I should know. I looked at everything and bought the falling-down-est one of all."

"Why?"

Nick shrugs. "It was cheap. And I like a challenge. Hey, you're dry." He reaches under the bar again and brings up a second bottle. His black-painted fingernails brush over the back of Lincoln's hand as he passes it over.

Well. "I bet you could give me all kinds of reasons to stay," Lincoln says, as neutrally as possible, not gazing into Nick's eyes at all. "Tell me the worst thing about living here."

Nick props his elbows on the bar as he considers. "The winters are awful. You'll never feel warm again."

Lincoln shudders. Winter in Jersey isn't a picnic either, but he's looked at the yearly highs and lows here and the difference is slightly terrifying. "How do you cope?"

"Poorly. I grew up in Florida, so I don't have the built-in stoic attitude about it." Nick stands up again, stretching, hands at the small of his back. "But I learned it's all about layers. Long underwear, multiple shirts, and hopefully someone to wrap around you at night."

Two things occur to Lincoln: First, he's having his very own meet-cute in this ridiculous bowling bar. And second, the cider isn't as hard as he is.

It's been a long time since he's felt such immediate chemistry with someone. But that isn't necessarily a reason to make this cold, remote place a home. "That's...tempting," he says, and Nick grins.

Nick holds up a finger and goes to attend to someone waving at him from down the bar. One request turns into multiple calls and that's fine, his absence gives Lincoln a chance to think clear of distraction.

It's true that his sister would be happy to have him near...but it's not like they're so close they need to be living in each other's pockets. Lincoln's moved around a lot the last few years, appreciating where he is but never really settling down. This place could use him at the moment, would be glad for his presence; there's nothing bad about that at all. He doesn't need the constant hubbub of a big city to keep himself entertained. It's probably even easier to avoid isolation here, where people draw together against the cold and the long winter dark.

He can sleep on the decision, at least. Or not sleep, as the case may be. He steals a glance in Nick's direction and catches Nick stealing one right back in between tending to his other customers. Same page, then.

He flips idly through the paper while he waits. The _Superior Daily Telegram_ seems to cover the northwestern corner of Wisconsin, connecting the small communities in the region with all the news of the day: births, marriages, and deaths, a community calendar, reports on area crime and church fundraisers and art festivals. He does glance over the rental listings and sees a few possibilities, but he'll definitely want to get Nick's opinion and look the places over for himself. If he decides to stay.

He's moved on to surreptitiously profiling his fellow patrons by the time Nick returns. Nick leans over the bar again, saying quietly, "I'm usually on-shift until close, but my boss owes me a favor. A lot of favors, actually, but the important thing is that I'm heading out and I was hoping to tempt you to come home with me."

It's not even half the innuendo it could be and that's what really sells Lincoln on the offer, along with Nick's hopeful, almost shy expression. "I was hoping you would," he says, low, and Nick's face lights up with that beautiful smile again.

On the way out an amiable-looking guy with a dark beard and mustache gives him a half-salute from the other side of the counter. Letting his employee off early for a queer hookup constitutes a good sign, Lincoln decides, especially considering they're in the Midwest.

Nick glances at him when they get out to his car. Lincoln sincerely hopes Nick isn't about to ask if he's sure about this, or worse, proclaim that he doesn't usually do this kind of thing, because why shouldn't he? But Nick just says, "My place is pretty far out. Just so you don't think you're being kidnapped."

"Going freely and of my own will," Lincoln says mildly. He takes a quick glance around the parking lot, but if he's going to live here, he needs to gauge the tolerance of the natives anyway. He steps in close. "But we should establish a basic level of comparability beforehand."

"Chemistry test," Nick murmurs, and closes the gap with a kiss.

Lincoln hadn't had any doubts on that score, and he's pleased to see that Nick seems just as certain by the time they break apart. There aren't any catcalls, which could just mean that no one was watching, but Nick hadn't hesitated. Another good sign. "God," Nick says, panting, "I'd say let's go to your place, it's closer, except the B&amp;B's walls are really thin."

"There really aren't any secrets in this town, are there?" Lincoln says, amused.

Nick shakes his head as he unlocks the car. "Every town has secrets. But gossip is practically a religion around here, next to rooting for the Packers and the Badgers."

En route Lincoln indulges his curiosity and glances through Nick's iPod. His playlist is an unholy mix of depressing 80's ballads—The Cure, Depeche Mode, The Smiths—and over-produced bubbly girl pop. Thankfully, Nick is happy to tell him all about the town as they drive, sparing Lincoln the aural assault. It's a hell of a sales pitch, despite the weather.

Nick wasn't lying. His place—a former hunting lodge—looks like it's liable to crash down on their heads any second. Part of Lincoln, the part that used to spend after school at his dad's hardware store and summers working handyman jobs, itches for a hammer. Or maybe a flamethrower.

He ends up being grateful for the seclusion, considering all the noise they make. Nick might've known exactly what he was doing when he bought this heap.

"Stay," Nick whispers in the middle of the night, and Lincoln already knows he's going to.

Four years later, he still doesn't have a single regret.


End file.
